


Things That Vanish

by shadow_lover



Category: Loveless
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Cinderella Elements, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Kiss, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7556182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the breath of his last word, the butterfly took flight. He watched it circling higher and higher, until the dark wings were lost between the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things That Vanish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mm8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/gifts).



> Thank you so much for the wonderful letter, and for requesting Soubi/Ritsuka! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it for you.

_1_

Whenever the walls pressed too tight around him, Ritsuka would run outside to slump on the back porch. That was most nights. He never got farther than that; he knew he was too useless to get far on his own. If he ran away and then was forced back, everything would be so much worse.

Besides. Mother was like this because Seimei was gone, and because the real Ritsuka was gone. To vanish was the ultimate betrayal. 

So he curled up on the porch, his back to the side of the house, knees pulled up to his chest. He tipped his head against the wall, ears pinned down, and stared up at the stars.

Tonight, his head still rang with Mother’s final backhand. When he prodded at his cheek, that hurt too. She had hit harder than usual, and he thought it was because she was afraid.

It was his fault. He shouldn’t have mentioned the summer masquerade. But when Yuiko and Yayoi talked about it at the market, they seemed so excited. When Yuiko said she had extra invitations for each night, something ached inside him, deeper and sharper than the bruise on his cheek. He thought about everyone—young and old, beautiful and ugly, beloved and loveless—welcomed into the palace for three nights, to don masks and forget who they were doomed to be. They could all forget themselves, and it wouldn’t matter.

He still held the three invitations when he got home, and Mother saw them in his hand. He should have lied when she asked what they were, but then again, the real Ritsuka didn’t lie.

A dark shape flitted before his eyes. He jumped, then froze as the butterfly landed on his hand. Its dark wings fanned slowly, and his skin tickled at the shift of its delicate legs.

Ritsuka had never seen a butterfly at night before. Tentatively, he lifted his hand from his knee to bring the butterfly closer to his face. “You can go anywhere you like, can’t you?” he said quietly. “That must be nice. I can’t even go to the masquerade. I wish I could.”

On the breath of his last word, the butterfly took flight. He watched it circling higher and higher, until the dark wings were lost between the stars.

Perhaps this was better, he thought, dropping his head to his knees. Even if he got to the palace unharmed, he had no fine clothes and no means by which to acquire them. He would stand out like the freak he was, and nobody would want to be his friend.

His breath hitched. Like that, he was crying. His chest seized as he shook, tight and painful, and his breath came in thin, barely-there whimpers. He was used to crying quietly.

He wasn’t used to this: a sudden warmth in the darkness, a gentle hand on his shoulder, and a soft voice saying, “Ritsuka.”

He jerked up, heart pounding. A man knelt in front of him, and Ritsuka didn’t understand how he could have gotten so close without him noticing. He didn’t understand how the man had entered the back garden. 

He didn’t understand why he was unafraid.

For he wasn’t, and not just because the man was beautiful. His hair was long and silver, like nothing Ritsuka had ever seen. His face was smooth and fine, though his brow furrowed with something Ritsuka thought might be the concern. He dressed very plainly, dark sweater and dark jeans, all dark except the white bandages around his neck, and he said, again, “Ritsuka.”

Ritsuka had never heard his name said like it was something precious. He swallowed, and said, voice rough from crying, “Who are you?”

The silver man smiled. He seemed to glow in the moonlight. “My name is Agatsuma Soubi, but that is unimportant.”

“What is important?”

“That I am yours,” he said, and leaned forward. His hand on Ritsuka’s cheek was feather-light and cool in contrast to the heavy warmth of the evening, to the red heat flushing through Ritsuka.

“Don’t say that,” Ritsuka snapped, jerking away. His tail lashed.

Soubi drew his hand back slowly. “It’s true, though.”

“It isn’t.” Nobody had ever been his. Mother was the real Ritsuka’s mother. Seimei was the real Ritsuka’s brother. He shoved to his feet, aiming to retreat indoors where at least his pain made sense, but the strange silver man was standing too. Long fingers took his wrist before he could move further.

“You don’t want to go inside,” Soubi said. “Tell me, where do you really want to go?”

 _Away._ He opened his mouth to say so, but instead he said, “I want to go to the masquerade, like everyone else.”

Soubi’s eyes glittered like stars. For an instant, Ritsuka thought he saw the faintest outline of wings sweeping through the darkness behind him. Soubi said, “If you trust me, I can take you to the masquerade.”

His voice was so soft and hopeful, his fingers loosening to so light a caress along his forearm, Ritsuka couldn’t help but believe him. “I don’t have an invitation or any nice clothes,” he said.

“Do you trust me?”

Ritsuka took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Then close your eyes.”

Ritsuka glanced around. He didn’t want to be seen falling for this. The house behind him was dark and blank, as were all the houses beyond the tall fence. He searched Soubi’s face once more and found only a slight smile, and something in those gleaming eyes that he couldn’t describe. So he closed his eyes.

When Soubi spoke again into the darkness, his voice reverberated like far-off thunder. He said, “ _Transform._ ”

A sudden wind swirled around Ritsuka, nearly pulling him from the ground. Ritsuka gasped, but kept his eyes screwed shut. His hands clenched into fists. 

“ _Bind beauty in silk. Envision. Reveal as you conceal_.”

Ritsuka’s clothes rustled over his body, and then the fabric’s texture changed against his skin. Softer against his chest and arms, looser around his legs, and tighter around his waist. His balance was off, his tail caught beneath the silk and his feet suddenly so much higher off the ground. He pinwheeled his arms in an attempt to stay upright.

Then there were cool, strong arms encircling him, and lips tickling against the sensitive shell of his ear: “You can open your eyes, Ritsuka.”

As he did so, Soubi stepped back. Ritsuka had space to look down at himself, and see the lushness of the silk sliding against his skin. The kimono was a deep color, so dark it looked nearly black in the moonlight. The hakama over it was just as dark, but patterned all over with silver thread. Ritsuka traced wondering fingers over the shapes of butterflies. 

“How did you do this?” he asked. His breathlessness was not entirely due to the tightly bound obi.

“My words have power,” Soubi said. He held something in his hands, and offered it to Ritsuka.

The half-mask was as dark as the kimono, trimmed in silver and pale gems. Ritsuka turned it over in his hands. “Will you put it on for me?”

“I am at your command.”

Ritsuka lifted the mask as Soubi moved behind him. The stiff silk fit perfectly to his face, and Soubi’s fingers were gentle in his hair as he tied the strings. When he was hidden, Ritsuka asked, “How are we getting to the palace?”

Soubi said again, “Close your eyes.”

Ritsuka did so. He expected more of those resonant words, but he heard only silence. Instead there were cold fingers under his chin, tipping his face back.

The kiss, when it came, was anything but cold.

Flushed hot, Ritsuka’s eyes snapped open, but Soubi was gone. His darkened back porch was gone—instead, the night air was bright with lanterns and loud with laughter. Music pounded nearly as fast as the beat of Ritsuka’s heart. He was at the palace threshold, and there was paper between his fingers. He held an invitation.

In the glowing courtyard, he could see his kimono and hakama were a deep purple, the same color as his eyes.

Ritsuka hovered at the edge of the courtyard, uncertain of whether he belonged in a bright place like this. But nobody came to throw him out, and nobody looked askance, so he took a deep breath and, new geta clattering on the pavement, darted for the entrance.

_2_

He caught a taxi home with Yuiko and Yayoi after the first night of the masquerade. They were so pleased when he arrived—at least Yuiko was—and that had startled Ritsuka. He hadn’t thought anyone especially wanted to see him.

He unwrapped his silks and tucked them neatly under his bed with the mask and geta. When he woke the next morning, the fine clothes had vanished.

All the next day, he tried to conceal his exhaustion from Mother. While he was sweeping the kitchen, she came up from behind to embrace him. He flinched so hard he nearly dropped the broom, but she didn’t seem to notice. She stroked his hair and said, “You’re my Ritsuka, aren’t you?”

When his answer caught jagged in his throat, she hissed and shoved him aside. He fell hard against the counter, and was grateful when she left without asking more from him.

He tried to think of laughter, of red and blue lanterns, of feathers and gems glittering above flashing smiles. He tried to think of music, but all he could think of was moonlight, silver hair, and that gentle kiss. 

After dark, he found himself outside again. This time, his eyes were dry and very wide. He couldn’t sit still. Tail twitching, he paced the edges of the small yard. He checked the side gate, trying to stay silent as his ears pricked for the faintest noise. He didn’t know if Soubi would come back. The masquerade was three nights long, but Soubi hadn’t promised anything. He wished he had asked more questions.

He wasn’t sure he hadn’t dreamed Soubi entirely.

The night air was warm and heavy around him. Ritsuka stood at the porch to shrug off his jacket when he felt a slight breeze through his hair. He whirled, jacket half-hanging from his bare arms, and Soubi was there. He was real, an arm’s length away, but he looked like a dream. 

“You came back,” Ritsuka said, dropping his jacket.

“You wanted me.” Soubi’s gaze fell away from Ritsuka’s face.

Ritsuka remembered the bruises on his arms. Some were darker and newer than others. He hunched in on himself.

Soubi’s hand lifted to the layers of white cloth around his neck. “It’s all right to hurt,” he said. “But tonight is for something else. Close your eyes, Ritsuka.”

Ritsuka straightened up and closed his eyes. This time, he expected the resonant words. They were no less shocking: a voice that spoke to the very core of him. Like Soubi was speaking to his true self, and not the shadow of him.

“ _A chrysalis unravels. Spread your wings_.”

His clothing slithered against his skin, and he shivered as cheap cotton became heavy, both tighter and looser, binding him in Soubi’s power. He did not lose his balance this time when his shoes changed, but some part of him wished he had. He would have liked for Soubi to catch him again.

“ _Incandesce_ ,” Soubi said, and the night was still.

Ritsuka opened his eyes without being told. Soubi was looking at him with so strange and so warm an expression. It was frightening, how sweet it felt to be looked at like that.

Tonight his clothing was pale as Soubi’s hair in moonlight, and the dark butterflies on his hakama spread their wings among twisting roses. The sleeves hung from his arms like wings of his own, and nobody would see his bruises. 

Soubi lifted his hands so Ritsuka could see tonight’s mask. This one was pale, like the kimono, with a catlike slant. Soubi said, “I hate to cover such a lovely face.”

Ritsuka bristled, ears flicking back, though he knew his scowl could not conceal the fluttering in his ribcage. “You’re the one who brought the mask,” he said.

“That’s true,” Soubi said, smiling his small smile. He turned Ritsuka gently and tied the mask around his head. His hands rested briefly on Ritsuka’s shoulders, before he turned him round again. “Close your eyes, Ritsuka.”

“Wait,” Ritsuka blurted, holding out his hands to keep Soubi back.

He was surprised when Soubi obeyed his plea. He wasn’t used to his words having power.

The shadows shimmered behind Soubi, like his wings were folding. “Do you not want to go?” Soubi asked, and then, softening further, “Or do you not want my kiss?”

“That’s not what I said.” Ritsuka stepped closer, hands tucked into his sleeves so Soubi might not see them trembling. “I just said to wait, because I wanted to ask you something.”

“Anything,” Soubi said. There was no magic in the word; it was so filled with emotion, there was no room for magic in it.

Ritsuka wondered what Soubi was afraid of, but he couldn’t ask that yet. Instead he asked, “Will you come too?”

Soubi’s eyes widened behind his glasses. He looked, for a moment, very young. “If that would please Ritsuka.”

His ears burned, but he managed to answer, “It would please me very much,” and the confession was worth it for the starlit brilliance of Soubi’s smile.

When Soubi began speaking and the wind picked up, Ritsuka tried to watch for the change. But between one instant and the next, the transformation was complete. Soubi’s clothing matched Ritsuka’s, from the black geta to the roses and butterflies entwining over his pale hakama. His mask was dark, though, and his long hair coiled up behind his head. Ritsuka couldn’t look away from the long line of his neck, how soft the skin looked before it met the edge of the bandages.

And Soubi watched him so warmly, so patiently, that Ritsuka gathered the courage to step forward. As he came nearer, long hands caught his waist, as if to hold him steady as he reached to trace below Soubi’s jaw. The skin was as soft as it looked, and Soubi’s pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips.

“Let’s go,” Ritsuka said.

“As you desire,” Soubi said, and bent to kiss him. 

The journey was easier in Soubi’s arms, and as Ritsuka pulled away, he saw he had been right. The rainbow lanterns lit up Soubi’s hair like a prism, like clouds after rain. Their kimonos were lavender, and the butterflies midnight blue.

“What now?” Soubi asked.

Ritsuka grinned and took his hand. “Now we make memories,” he said. “There’s a maze, and a photo booth, and dancing, if you want.”

Soubi sketched half a bow. “Of course,” he said. “I’m yours, tonight.”

Ritsuka liked that, he thought, as he led Soubi into the masquerade.

_3_

That second night, Ritsuka didn’t need to catch a taxi with Yuiko and Yayoi. Soubi brought them back with another kiss—sweet and slow in the shadows of the maze, where nobody would see them vanish. When Ritsuka opened his eyes, he was alone in his backyard, with only the memory of heat on his lips and a throat sore from hours of talking. He felt he could say anything to Soubi.

He took off the geta, but he did not take off his clothes. He curled up in the binding silks, and his fingers twisted in the hems of the sleeves until they loosened into sleep. When he woke, the fine clothes had vanished anyway.

He spent the day frantic. Tonight was the third and final night of the masquerade. He didn’t understand what he felt for Soubi—something like bruises, like shattered glass, like light—but he knew he needed more than just one more night to figure it out.

He was tired of things that vanished when he closed his eyes.

So when night fell and the moon rose, Ritsuka again ventured outside. He wore a t-shirt and left his jacket in his closet. He didn’t care if Soubi saw his bruises. He sat on the back step, leaning against the house he hated, and he stared at his hands until the moonlight briefly dimmed and the breeze ruffled his hair. He looked up.

“Are you ready?” Soubi asked. He offered his hand.

Ritsuka let himself be pulled up, but then seized Soubi’s wrist. “I’m not ready,” he said. “I don’t want to go tonight.”

Soubi was very still in his grasp. “I thought we might go together again,” he said, and his voice was not unearthly. He sounded like nothing so much as Ritsuka himself.

Ritsuka knew how it was not to have the right answers, so he said, “I hate when people disappear.” And maybe he didn’t have magic in his words, but Soubi jumped under his hand. So then he said, “I don’t want you to disappear again either.”

And it was like a mask fell from Soubi’s face, and he hid nothing. He was wide-eyed as he touched Ritsuka’s cheek with cool, steady fingers. “I’m sorry, Ritsuka.”

For the first time, sympathy was a balm and not a knife. Rituska barely held himself back from sinking into it. “I want more than memories,” he said. “So I don’t want to go. I want you to stay here with me.”

“All right,” said Soubi, like it was easy. He was smiling.

Ritsuka’s ears perked. “Not just tonight,” he said quickly. If words had power, he had to be clear. “I mean—you can leave, and you can’t _live_ here, but you have to come back. I want to see you tomorrow, and the next day, and after, and I want to just know you’re there. I want to know you.”

“I’m yours,” Soubi said. “Whether I’m here or not, whether you want me or not. But given that, I’ll admit,” and he brushed Ritsuka’s hair from his face, slowly, possessively, “I’d rather you want me.”

It was painful, how bad he wanted Soubi. It was so bright and sharp in the darkness that all Ritsuka could do was laugh and drag Soubi down for a wet, desperate kiss.

It was like taking flight, but they stayed right there.


End file.
